


All world's a stage

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After-death meeting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Platform 9 3/4, mentioned: Remus/Tonks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: Remus ends up at Platform 9 3/4. How did it happen? He was in the middle of the final battle. But then he meets an old acquaintance of his and everything becomes clear.“Merlin, Remus.” Sirius turned his head towards him “What was that?”“You are dead.”He wanted to scream. It came out more like a wheeze.“Yes.” Sirius’ voice was dry.“How could you?”How could you? How could you? How could you?That was always the question with Sirius.





	All world's a stage

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody!  
> This fanfiction is sort of a follow up to the last one I've written, but you don't need to read it to understand this one.  
> It was prompted by my lovely friend Marta to whom it is dedicated.  
> It's mostly angst, believe me.  
> I do not have anything against Remus and Tonks, as I hope will be clear from this fanfiction. I am perfectly okay with the fact that both Wolfstar and Remadora could exist at the same time in the same universe.  
> Soooo what else? Oh yeah, I am not a native speaker so please point out mistakes to me.  
> Well, enjoy!

All the world's a stage,  
And all the men and women merely players;  
They have their exits and their entrances,  
And one man in his time plays many parts,  
His acts being seven ages.

William Shakespeare, _As you like it_

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;  
A stage where every man must play a part,  
And mine a sad one.

William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

 

 

The first time it happened, he thought he was going to crash right against the red brick wall. He distinctly imagined how it would happen – yes, all in the few instants that preceded the impact. He studied physics, from an old second hand tome that his mother had stuffed in a dusty box in the attic. It was going to end up in the bin, after their first move, but he had watched his parents with big eyes asking if they could keep the books – he’d just learnt to read. They had exchanged a tired glance, then his mother had nodded and pushed the box in his father’s arms, and then it went straight inside the old, mostly-Muggle Ford. So yeah, he studied physics – read and re-read the same book, actually, the basics. The rubber bumper would collide with the wall first, probably making a soft thump. Then the crash of the objects would follow: his father’s old trunk, scratched and shabby, then the cage of his old family owl. The force of his thrust on the handle would push him against the frame, the breath cut out from his lungs – maybe a broken rib, or two, depending on the number of newtons. He would tumble over it, his scrawny, bony body thrown over Nestor’s cage. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t bump his head against the bricks. He wasn’t usually lucky.

He was ready for it to happen, so ready, even if his dad had told him he was going to be fine, that he would go straight through the wall and on the Platform, he hadn’t believed him. Since Dumbledore had stood on their porch, tall and mighty, and told him he was welcome at Hogwarts, a voice in his head kept going on and on: _There is a mistake_. _I’m not a wizard_.

He was so sure that the Platform would reject him, that the magic that dunked the stone would feel he was different. Dark. Not a _real_ wizard. But it didn’t. No impact, no shattering, no broken ribs. He went through, simple as that.

It happened this time too. He passed through.

Platform 9¾ looked mostly the same. A little foggier, probably; he couldn’t really distinguish the ceiling. The train was there, red and shiny. He stepped forward and he saw something in the corner of his eye. A movement, the rattling of a trolley, a polished red and gold badge. When he turned, sharply, painfully, there was nothing except fog. _It’s all too quiet_. _Students should be here, parents._ As soon as he formulated the thought, noises exploded in his head: curses and screams and growls and… Hogwarts. He was at Hogwarts. The battle. Voldemort. He had to go back: people needed him – Harry, Tonks, _Teddy_. Why was he on the Platform? Was this an enchantment? Instinctively the hold on his wand tightened. He lowered his eyes on his right hand, surprised: he didn’t even notice he was still grasping the smooth wood.

“ _Hominum revelio_ ” he mumbled. Nothing.

“ _Revelio_ ” he repeated, resorting to the more generic spell. Again, nothing happened.

Then, he heard a rumble. The noise was strong and soft at the same time, almost like the purring of a very big feline. He knew that noise. He hadn’t heard it in years – more than a decade – but he knew it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to distinguish something in the white fog. First, he saw the light, a single, sharp beam of light. Then the dark shape of a wheel, a black mudguard, a dashboard, handlebar…

He stopped breathing.

(Was he breathing, before, though?)

Sirius was sitting on his motorbike, the usual, cocky grin on his face. It was the same smile of his teenage years, but his eyes were sadder, crow feet all through his temple, dark, purple circles framing them, dimples – and something else, more painful, deep wrinkles – on his cheeks. He had a stubble – it didn’t do wonders for him, he was too pale those days ( _Of course I do, I never leave this goddamn prison!_ ) and he seemed even more gray-ish with it, he had told him a thousand…

“Hello, Moony.”

Something snapped inside him.

He could feel the wolf, as if Sirius had triggered it using his nickname. Suddenly, he felt a blind anger pervade him: he still couldn’t understand why, it was on the tip of his tongue, but his instinct told him that he wanted to hurt Sirius, _to hurt him like he had_.

He threw himself against the man and as if by magic the motorbike wasn’t there anymore, and he pushed all his weight against his chest. They stumbled and fell, and Remus straddled him and started hitting him, on his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw, his perfect face. His fingers hurt, his knuckles hurt – he had no idea how to throw punches, why didn’t he ever learn? _I hate him, I hate him, how could him, how could him?_ Everything was coming back and Remus kept hitting, and crushing and wounding. It hurt. Everything and everywhere, his bones, his chest, his head, his heart.

“Stop! Remus, stop!”

He raised his hands and looked down. Sirius wasn’t bleeding. He looked exactly the same as before: scrawny and worn out, his hair a messy skein around his head. Remus growled and disentangled himself from Sirius’ body, crawling away and abandoning himself on the hard floor. It wasn’t dirty, it was supposed to be, it should have been, it was the platform of a damn station, plenty of feet stepped on it every day but it wasn’t. He looked at his hands: his knuckles weren’t even red, nor they ached anymore. He looked at Sirius, still lying down beside him.

“Merlin, Remus.” Sirius turned his head towards him “What was that?”

“You are dead.”

He wanted to scream. It came out more like a wheeze.

“Yes.” Sirius’ voice was dry.

“How could you?”

_How could you? How could you? How could you?_

That was always the question with Sirius: when he had told Snape how to get in the shack – _how could you?_ ; when he had kissed him in their small kitchen, war outside, death and chaos, and Remus didn’t need any other complications, any more heartbreak, _but here we are_ – _how could you?_ ; when he had blown up a whole street and killed Peter and betrayed James and Lily – _how could you?_ ; when he had let him believe that was the truth for twelve years – _how could you?_ ; when he had admitted he thought Remus was the spy – _how could you?_ ; when he had disappeared for a whole year, gone into hiding, not a word, again – _how could you?_ ; when he had jumped off a stupid hippogriff, because of course he did, right on his porch, _Dumbledore told me to lie low here, fancy a smoke?_ – _how could you?_ ; when he had fallen beyond that damn arch, leaving to him to keep Harry from following him – _how could you? How could you, Sirius?_ Always the same question.

“Wow, that was a lot of suppressed rage.”

“I didn’t say it out loud.” He snapped, angrily.

“No, you didn’t.” Sirius sat up with a swift movement. He crossed his forearms on his knees and rested his chin there.

Remus propped himself up, too, on his knees and moved towards him. He was still angry, he was still furious, he wanted to hurt him. He shoved him. Sirius swung but didn’t lose his balance. Remus punched him against his shoulder. No movement, but his eyes blazed dangerously. Remus felt as if all his pain, all his frustration was pouring in waves from him. _He is the only one,_ he thought, _the only one who can see me like this_.

“How could you?” he growled again through gritted teeth, hustling him, “How could you leave me? How could you do it again?” he hit him, “Again and again.” and hit him, “You promised me, Sirius! You filthy, fucking liar!” and…

“That’s enough, Lupin!” Sirius grabbed his wrist, stopping his umpteenth blow.

They looked at each other and Remus blinked first. Sirius grasped his left elbow with his hand that looked like a spider and pulled him against his chest. It wasn’t a hug. Not a real one, anyway. It seemed more like one of those tangles in which they ended up when they wanted to feel each other, and the world was crumbling down out of the window and they were twenty-one and felt ancient.

Remus pressed his forehead against Sirius’ gaunt shoulder. He could cry. Maybe. Did he still have tears? They were so close his chin was pressing against his sternum. He could still feel Sirius’ fingers curling around his elbow, around his wrist. His right arm was stiff, and he started feeling his muscles numbing. But he could smell Sirius, touch Sirius, feel Sirius. He smelled like wet dog and old, dusty wine and smoke. His grasp was painful, uncomfortable. He felt like memories, like coming home.

They moved away in the end, just enough to look each other in the eye. Then Sirius pushed a finger against his chest, then spoke: “How could _you_?”

Remus’ eyes popped out of his head: “Me? What did I ever do?”

“Don’t let me even start! First, you married my cousin!”

Remus opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Then opened it again. Then closed it.

“I did,” he said, like he was realising it in that precise moment, “didn’t I?”

Sirius looked at him with an expression that could only be translated with: “Duh!” He didn’t seem angry. Not because of that, anyway. He seemed mildly amused. Melancholic. But Remus felt there was something else behind it: he knew Sirius too well. But that wasn’t the moment to worry about it. Sirius had said something. _You married my cousin_.

_Dora._

Pink hair.

Heartfelt laugh.

Soft smile.

All soft.

He looked at Sirius, all bones and angles and edges and heartbreak.

“I did.” Remus repeated, as if he was trying to persuade himself, as if he was saying: _I don’t remember why, though._ But it was a lie, of course. He knew why. He frowned, “It was like looking in a mirror.”

Sirius didn’t reply, he just looked at him with his deep set eyes.

“She was hurting. I was hurting.” It was like remembering something distant. It happened only a few months before, but in his mind, it was like someone else’s life. He blinked repeatedly, “Everything was numb. And I wanted to mourn, and I couldn’t mourn, of course I couldn’t.” He paused. It had happened so fast. “There’s never time to mourn, ever, there has never been. Everyone was there and everyone was fussing but not on me and she… she was?” It came out like a question.

Sirius tilted his head and his long hair slipped from his shoulder, floating in the strange atmosphere. Suddenly he looked younger.

_She wanted me_. Remus thought.

“You always have that tone of surprise when you realise things like that.” Sirius lit a fag with a snap of his fingers – Remus didn’t ask himself where it came from, nor how he read his mind.

_I thought maybe if I give in, she’ll be happy._

Sirius snorted: “So noble of you.” His tone said that he didn’t think Remus was noble at all. He preferred him mildly amused. Melancholic. But he knew that the something else was coming. He bit back anyway.

“Fuck off, Sirius!”

It was all his fault. If he didn’t die… He could still remember – it was more vivid than Dora’s mischievous eyes –, he could still remember dusty, dirty Grimmauld Place, breaking old family curses in the basement together, choosing Harry’s Christmas present from Flourish & Blotts catalogue, fucking on the screeching bed, having breakfast together at the kitchen table, sharing half-smiles over the cups “If you didn’t die, I wouldn’t have…”

“Married a twenty-three-year-old? Left another fucking orphan? Left him to Harry?” Sirius spit out the questions. The fag was burning between his fingers, as if his anger had made the process accelerate. Remus remembered it happened quite frequently when they were both…

Something hit him.

_Left another fucking orphan?_

“Am I dead?” He asked, dumbstruck.

Sirius had a murderous look in his eyes.

“Sirius, am I…?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, of course you are fucking _dead_ , Remus.”

Remus could feel Sirius’ anger. He could feel it on the surface of his skin, like he had always been able to feel his magic, strong and buzzing like electricity.

“You were supposed to survive.” Sirius looked hurt, as if Remus offended him personally, “You were the Survivor. James was the Victim, I was the Traitor, Wormtail, that scum, was the Martyr and you were supposed to be the goddamn Survivor, Remus. Why didn’t you stick to the script?” He was almost yelling “How was it? _I hold the world but as the world; a stage where every man must play a part_. That’s your Muggle poet, that git. Why didn’t you stick to it?”

He remembered twelve-year-old Sirius reading _The Merchant of Venice_. He made a big fuss of declaiming it, standing on the Gryffindor table, when Narcissa or Regulus were passing by.

Remus licked his lips: “Somewhere else he also says: _And one man in his time plays many parts_.”

Sirius threw the fag butt towards him and Remus hissed when it hit his cheekbone: “You didn’t tell me about it.”

“It’s from a comedy. Didn’t think it was your genre.” He shrugged.

Sirius laughed humourless, still sounded like a bark: “No. I’m a tragic hero. Comedy doesn’t suit you either, Moony.”

_Fair enough._

Remus paused, then felt like he had to draw the lines on the ts: “I didn’t take my life.” It sounded like a justification. Suddenly, he felt childish. Did it really matter? Throwing himself in a bloody battle wasn’t suicidal enough?

Sirius scoffed: “Of course not, you promised me.”

_We were fourteen, how can you remember?_

He had no idea if he was answering or if he was just thinking the answers. Sirius seemed to know anyway, as though he was able to read him like an open book. He had never been able to do it, really. Just parts, splinters that usually hurt anyone else but him.

The look in Sirius’ eyes was almost insulted, when he answered: “You remember, I remember.”

They sit in silence for a while, then Remus seemed to realise something: “You said…”

“Tonks’s dead. Died with you. Very romantic. Shakespearean.”

Remus wanted to hit him again: “Bugger off, Sirius.”

He thought about Tonks’ infectious laugh. He thought about her holding baby Teddy in her arms. Why wasn’t he able to cry anymore? He reckoned he ought to cry. His wife was dead. His _whatever_ was dead. His best friend was dead. His other best friend had sold them all to Voldemort and then died by his own hand. His son was an orphan. He laughed a humourless laugh.

_I’m a tragic hero._

The steam was coming out in fluffy clouds from the Hogwarts Express. Somewhere, the imaginary train manager whistled.

Sirius was right, of course. He ought to have stayed home, by Teddy’s side. He and Tonks… how brave they had felt, to throw themselves together in the battle. How alive he felt, young, reckless. He could almost picture James and Sirius casting hexes back to back at his side. He had wanted to channel Sirius, maybe. Be like Sirius so not to forget him. _Please, Merlin, don’t make me forget him_. He should have known better.

He looked at Sirius and he looked back and his eyes were a very clear, a greysh-blue.

He really should have known better.

He had already fought his battles, he was supposed to stand aside, be with his son. He wasn’t supposed to leave him to the care of a woman who had lost everything – husband, daughter, son-in-law – and of a boy barely of age. Andromeda didn’t deserve it. Harry didn’t deserve it. He had been selfish trying to be selfless. Always the selfish one: he was the one who had let his friends engage in dangerous and illegal magic to have company during the full moon, because he wasn’t able to bear it; he was the one who never prevented them from bullying Snape; he was the one who forgave Sirius even if he didn’t even understood what he did wrong, pushing Severus into the arms of a fully formed werewolf; he was the one who never asked Dumbledore to see Harry for twelve years, because he was too scared to see James in him, to face the fact he had not been able to protect him, all of them; he was the one who never told the Headmaster about Sirius’ being an Animagus even when he believed him to be guilty, because he couldn’t stand seeing him disappointed; he was the one who almost abandoned his pregnant wife, if it wasn’t for Harry, seventeen-year-old Harry, because he wanted… he wanted… he wanted to feel close to Sirius again, behaving like him, acting like him, because he was scared of the responsibility; he was the one who decided to fight when he should have stayed home taking care of his baby son, he was the one…

Suddenly Sirius got up and brushed his old tailored trousers, as though he was afraid they had gathered dust after sitting on the floor for hours – minutes? months? seconds?

“Stop sulking, Lupin. You have all eternity for that. Time to go.”

“What?” Remus was still sitting, his burned cheek stung.

“Harry needs us.” Sirius pointed at the Hogwarts Express, the door of the first carriage was open. Remus spotted the hem of a cloak slipping in, heard a familiar laugh coming from the inside. His heart leaped. _Prongs_.

“What does it mean…?”

But Sirius wasn’t listening to him, he climbed on the first step, then looked back and lifted the corner of his mouth: “Hurry up, Moony.”

 

_Hurry up, Moony._

_You are always the last one._

_It’s all those books, Prongs, I don’t know how he manages to lift his trunk._

_Do you need help, Remus?_

_It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly if he let a girl help him, would he, Evans?_

_Oh, because sexism is very gentlemanly, Potter._

It was a long way to Hogwarts, and he didn’t really need an explanation to help Harry. Remus got up and reached Sirius, lifting himself on the step. They were extremely close. Sirius smirked and Remus pushed him inside. He could swore he had seen a lock of red hair disappearing beyond the gangway bellows: “Move on, Padfoot. Time to go back to Hogwarts.”

_Time to play a new part on this stage._

 

For what else is the life of man but a kind of play in which men in various costumes perform until the director motions them off the stage?

Erasmus, _The Praise of Folly_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything. This is just for fun.


End file.
